


Wingman

by norcumi



Series: Nurturing Nature [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Animal Transformation, Don’t copy to another site, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-19 04:55:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18131237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norcumi/pseuds/norcumi
Summary: With the Wolf Pack off doing he doesn't really know what, Warthog has an interesting time elsewhere in the 104th.





	Wingman

It’d been a long day already, in a long month. General Koon and a bunch of the Pack had basically dropped off the radar for some kind of secret mission, but the rest of the 104th still had shit to do. With no General to be wingman to, Warthog floated around the other squads, filling in holes as needed. He’d had an interesting evening with his current temp squad, since someone had finally heard rumors about Warthog’s ridiculous habit: he’d try eating anything once, and ninety-nine out of a hundred times he wouldn’t even blink. He wasn’t sure if it was some genetic anomaly, or if he’d managed to do something weird due to a willingness to try new foods - or if a few training incidents had somehow burned out his tastebuds, for all he knew. The only way to tell would probably be to ask a Kaminoan, and no way was any brother going to mention potential mutations to a longneck. 

So Warthog had been social longer than intended, because wagering had been brisk about if he could or would try whatever stupid thing someone could come up with. All sorts of contraband drinks and tidbits came out of hidey-holes, and as usual he made out well. Meant he stayed longer than he really had energy for, even if it’d been worth it. 

He relaxed a little when he hit the quiet barracks. Everyone was either asleep, or back at the gathering. He didn’t have to cover for his exhaustion, needing to look strong as the General’s wingman and go-to man for all the impossible piloting demands. Warthog let himself slump against the wall in the fresher when he walked in to find it empty, closing his eyes and just breathing for a bit. 

The way the war kept grinding on, it got harder and harder to recall the last time he  _ wasn’t _ tired. Probably some time before the Gwori cluster, and losing Tracer. His tailgunner always had been good about dragging his stupid ass to get some sleep. 

Warthog shook that memory off, forcing his eyes open. He immediately yelped and hit the deck, adrenaline a cold wash down his spine. Enemy fire didn’t come. Blaster in hand, he popped his head up.

Nothing. The place was empty. 

Heart still in his throat, twitchy from the sudden burst of energy that was already gone, Warthog checked the entire fresher with his blaster ready. 

Still nothing. 

He ended up back where he’d started, even more tired now yet so much more jittery. He stared at the mirror, trying to figure out how he could have been exhausted enough to hallucinate his reflection as - as something else. Glowing yellow eyes and a Jedi’s cloak - that was a hell of a stretch. 

“Definitely need sleep,” he muttered, trying for his more usual worlds-weary tone instead of deeply unnerved. 

Good advice, even if it didn’t help him settle. He might have been watching over his shoulder all the way back to his bed, where he quadruple-checked his blaster before tucking it carefully within reach and making sure his back was flush to the wall.

Between the nerves and the last adrenaline rush, Warthog had more trouble falling asleep than he quite expected. He lost track of the number of times he was almost fully dozing before some kind of muscle spasm would jerk him back to reality. Three attempts to untangle the sheets later, the exhaustion finally swamped him, leaving him with restless nightmares of half-seen figures melting in and out of sight. 

* * *

“I don’t know if that’s mean, brilliant, or just guaranteed to get someone a good thrashing,” some brother commented nearby in a tone of horrified admiration. The murmur of agreement seemed too loud for the usual barracks gossip. Warthog just groaned and tried to compress his head further into the pillow, because he was still tired, and rack time always came before the usual troop gossip and pranks. He didn’t need to know. All the local noise immediately hushed, setting off Warthog’s instincts and making the hair on the back of his neck bristle. The silence had a particular hush to it, a ‘quiet or they’ll notice you’ presence like one of the instructors almost catching misbehavior. Something was definitely up. Warthog’s ears twitched as he tried to pinpoint any noise that might indicate - 

Wait, what?

He froze, then did a cautious check of his body, tiny shifts against the mattress and little flexes of muscles. The result was...not good. His face felt funny in a way that didn’t make sense, for all that he had it solidly mashed into the pillow. His ears – yeah, those were definitely mobile, that made  _ no _ sense. He couldn’t feel most of his fingers, his legs were all wrong, and – Nope, this was not good. 

“Ok, whose ass am I kicking?”

The silence changed, starting as hushed whispers and shifting brothers then cutting off like a tinny meeting a lightsaber. That wasn’t normal. Kind of nice, since he didn’t often command that kind of instant reaction. That was more Wolffe’s thing. He forced his eyes open, hoping things might make sense then. 

Nope. The initial sleep blurriness didn’t blink away, leaving him squinting at something dark someone had left on his pillow.

“No really, whose ass?” Warthog demanded, shoving himself up. His wrists buckled oddly, but he was too busy staring at the still blurry pillow that rose up with him.

Rather like it was stuck on the dark whatever-it-was that was in front of his face, had moved  _ with _ him as he’d shifted upright.

“That’s - that’s not some kind of Gamorrean, is it?” some brother asked.

Warthog somehow managed to stop himself before snapping a sarcastic ‘do I  _ look _ like a Gamorrean?’ He was at least awake enough to know that would be a dumb idea. He shook his head, hoping something would clear up. There was a ripple of something along his back, while his head swung heavily back and forth until the pillow dropped back onto the bed, revealing a curved, off-white blur in its place.

Oh. Oh  _ no. _ The math finally added up, and he  _ hated _ the vector he figured out. 

“Someone  _ please _ tell me I don’t look like an actual warthog,” he whispered.

One of the blurry figures moved closer, hands held out to the sides in a cautious posture. It only took two steps for smell of the brother’s unfortunate choice in hair gel slammed into Warthog’s nostrils, and he was willing to wager the dark puff around the brother’s face was that spiky mess Close-Shave favored. 

“Is that...you?” Close-Shave asked, definitely Warthog’s latest wingman. “Or is this a really dumb prank?”

Fuck. He sighed and flopped down on the bed, since beating his head against a wall didn’t seem like a viable option. “I guess it could be both,” he said, making a face. “But I’m not in on it.”

That sharp silence stretched out, until someone muttered, “well, shit.”

Yeah, that sounded about right. 


End file.
